


mortar and shadows ;

by therentyoupay



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Characters in Disguise, Cinderella AU, F/M, Multiple Secret Identities, Queen!Elsa, Secret Identity, peasant!Jack Frost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack, with his silver-blond hair and dirt on his pale face, who sleeps on the cold stone floor. Who is too skinny, too lanky, too weak for hard labor, who rarely sees the sun. </p><p>Who now only sees mortar and shadows, the dark cellars of the Master’s house. Jack, whose skin is forever chilled from nights spent alone, whose blood flows too slowly to warm his veins, to always reach the tips of his fingers. Jack, who sees with blue eyes and with pale hands, who cuts his own silver-blond hair. Jack, who once loved where he lived, who treasured his mother’s family’s name, who lost more than just a place and a home and a guardian when their old master died.</p><p>Jack, who they call, <em>Jack Frost</em>. </p><p> </p><p>— In which a name can be someone's most powerful defense, or someone else's most powerful weapon. (Or—secret identities, princesses and peasant boys in disguise… and a bit of magic in reverse.) { Jack/Elsa ; Cinderella/Fairy Tale AU }</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the market -

**Author's Note:**

> _11/11/15_. OKAY OKAY OKAY I AM WEAK, I know, but I am posting an unbeta’d set of ficlets and drabbles that I started writing a long-ass time ago (like… June 6th, lol) because it is VERY SAD FOR ME that I don’t have time to write any new material, and also I am very strongly missing the positive reinforcement of reviews (T____________T), and also I am doing this new thing where I’m realizing that not all of my ficlet series need to be finished right away, lol. 
> 
> When I read fanfiction it’s much easier for me to recognize that sometimes a slice of an AU is just as awesome as a whole multi-chapter AU, so I really need to start letting myself feel the same way when it comes to writing (instead of just hoarding all of these unfinished WIPs on my laptop, lolol.) 
> 
> I actually have a whole bunch more for this AU already written, so I'll post a little bit every now and then.
> 
> This story came from a prompt on tumblr. When I dig back through my askbox and find it again, I will respond with the appropriate link! Thank you for your patience!!

 

* * *

**mortar and shadows ;**

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, holding out the broken basket. After a moment’s hesitation, she eyes the muck of ruined eggs amidst the dirt. “May I… help?”

Not too far in the distance, a tall figure in a dark cloak turns a corner and disappears into the crowds of the market. Face still burning, Jack looks down at the mess scattered over his breeches and boots, and feels his throat constrict around the words.

“No need for that, miss,” says someone behind him. It’s Aster, ever gracious in the face of shame. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, eyes cast down to the damaged goods, and finds that his grin is just the tiniest bit heavier to pick up today. He receives the basket with a nod and stiff shoulders, drenched in humiliated silence. 

Thiana is rearranging the items atop their stand, desperately trying to make it look more presentable. Nicholas is grimly silent, grimly still, and Jack doesn’t blame him.

“Do you… know that man?” she asks softly, and Jack wonders why she is still here. He wishes she would leave. 

He’s afraid that she’ll never come back.

“Master Black cares greatly for the quality of his wares,” tightly replies Aster, who has answered because Jack still cannot. Of all the days, Jack thinks. Of all the days and all the mornings they’ve feared a visit, _this_ is the one he chooses. First sign of a pretty face, and before Jack even has a chance, _he arrives just in time to_ — 

“Oh… I see,” she quietly replies, and Jack’s gut sinks further. “I’m sorry,” she hastens, seeing the looks on their faces. “I didn’t mean to intrude—”

“Fret not, young miss,” Thiana reassures her, though her smile is strained. She’d had such a beautiful smile, once, but hard times have waned the truth of its shine. Her voice wavers only slightly. “It is our pleasure to serve this corner of the market. Now, is there anything that we might have the privilege of offering you today?”

The woman with blue eyes and a hooded cloak buys from them a single apple, and no one haggles her for more. Aster handles the transaction with professional civility and Anderson rubs the red skin with a clean cloth until it shines. Thiana’s smile is kinder when the money is paid, and Jack determinedly does not look at the silver coin that slips from hand to hand. Thiana’s are still shaking.

“Thank you,” says the young woman, sincerely, who lingers only for just the smallest of moments, as if unwilling to leave. Jack continues to sweep away the added dust and muck at the ground as the others exchange their polite goodbyes. He looks up only after she has turned away. He wonders for how long he might remember her face. 

He pretends he does not know the answer.

Their corner of the market is especially bleak, after that. They sell what they can, and then return to the estate, readying to prepare the Master’s dinner. Wondering, silently, what the evening will bring.

It’s good that he’ll probably never see her again, Jack tells himself on the journey home, remembering the sounds of cracking eggshells and hissing insults, the barest glance at a pale face and bright, blue eyes… the brief moment that they were not shaded with astonishment, or mortification, or pity. 

 _Coward_ , he thinks, and winces.

(Thinks of a young face, splashed with a wave of endearing freckles.   
Big brown eyes with flecks of gold, and a smile—)

The sickness returns to his stomach, etching itself in the ragged wool of his clothes. _Remember who you’re doing this for_ , he thinks, picturing a bright summer day, and the promise of a brighter future, because _you sure aren’t doing this for yourself_. He holds onto the dread for a moment longer, like a heavy pit in the center of his heart, and then Jack breathes deep, pulls his thoughts out of the pile of misery that is his life, and valiantly curls up a smirk. 

“Looks like I’m not quite as much of a ladies’ man as I’d thought,” he remarks slyly, then laughs lightly at the outcry that sparks the others to life. 

 _It’s all right_ , Jack thinks, ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest. His grin aches, but at least it’s still there. It’s possible that he lost a chance at something this morning— _something bright and honest, maybe_ —but now he’ll never know. It could be so much worse. Master Black feeds off their obedience, their reticence, attention, their _fear_ —but Jack has grown used to living in uncertainty, to wallowing in the unknown. Master Black enjoys the amusement of throwing others into unpleasant surprises, but he is also a man of efficiency and jobs well done. And Master Black’s cruelty, however tightly-reigned, is at least clearly visible—fiercely tangible—in the pits of his dark, black eyes. Today’s shame and humiliation could have been so much worse, so much stronger. So much more twisted.

It could have been Master Hans.

 

//

 

There are stories that Master Black was once a great man. An esteemed General from the wars, well-respected and highly revered, who acquired quite a wealth of power and gold, and a remarkable estate in the far countryside that his beloved wife had so admired. 

It had been some years since the Mistress of the household had passed, however, and almost as many since his young daughter had run off into the woods, and Jack has never known any such Master.

 

//

 

Jack, with his silver-blond hair and dirt on his pale face, who sleeps on the cold stone floor. Who is too skinny, too lanky, too weak for hard labor, who rarely sees the sun. 

Who now only sees mortar and shadows, the dark cellars of the Master’s house. Jack, whose skin is forever chilled from nights spent alone, whose blood flows too slowly to warm his veins, to always reach the tips of his fingers. Jack, who sees with blue eyes and with pale hands, who cuts his own silver-blond hair. Jack, who once loved where he lived, who treasured his mother’s family’s name, who lost more than just a place and a home and a guardian when their old master died.

Jack, who they call, _Jack Frost_. 

 

//


	2. the cellar -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two (or three) pieces of bad news come in the same evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _11/24/15_. Remember how I started writing _at the center_ as a way to give myself breaks between writing grad school applications? Well, this is what I'm writing every so often to give myself breaks between bouts of writing my Master's thesis. ~~That's why this fic is so much angstier than my usual shit.~~
> 
> (Honestly, though, I am essentially writing this fic for tumblr annony and myself, lololololol.)
> 
> [Unbeta'd (for now) because I am trying not to ask them to beta anything until I ask them to proofread my THESIS in December!!]

* * *

_the cellar -_

* * *

 

  
The woman with blue eyes and a dark cloak does not return the following day, nor the next, nor the next, nor any of the three following mornings after that.

  
//

  
Two pieces of bad news come in the same evening.

The first is during the second course of dinner, while a visitor has already called upon them and, for once, Master Black actually seems to be interested in his company.

(Master Hans: primary tenant of the neighboring estate, wealthy proprietor, and descendant of a long line of aristocratic blood—though not _quite_ enough to allow him into the inner-circles of the royal court; conventionally handsome and famously polite;  an exceedingly popular bachelor; and, at least within the servants’ quarters—

A universally-acknowledged jackass.)

When a knock sounds at the door, Aster receives it with grim austerity. He hands a message scroll to Master Black, who silently reads the royal decree with an alarming hint of displeasure.

“My good fellow, Hans,” notes the Master slowly, folding the parchment and handing it off to Aster without giving either the missive or the groundskeeper another glance. “It seems that we of noble respectability have received the immeasurable privilege of being invited to the castle.”

Jack carefully glances out of the corner of his eye with no small degree of nausea as he watches Hans’ face smooth over. Jack can already see it in his mind, of course: wealthy, miserable Hans gallivanting the courts with the smile of a snake and eyes like daggers, with a false laugh that could rake hearts. 

It leaves Jack breathless with rage.

“Oh?” replies Hans, as Jack’s skin crawls. “What a remarkable opportunity.” 

“Indeed,” drawls Master Black, who clearly fails to see the invitation in the same light. The Master’s disdain seeps into the room like a blanket of darkness, and Thiana breathes deeply at Jack’s side. He wants to look at her, to brush his elbow against hers, something to let her know that it’s all right, but Jack’s gaze is to remain lowered, and in his head, a small voice whispers _remember why you’re here_.

Hans does not seem the least bit perturbed by his neighbor’s lack of enthusiasm. “And what is the honor of the occasion?”

Jack’s stomach is already sinking, neck prickling, by the time Master Black’s quiet, heavy voice intones, “A ball.”

Thiana’s soft breath is sharp beside him, but Jack resolutely keeps his head down. He aches to reach for her hand, to reassure her—the Master _threatens_ , and he _warns_ , but only rarely does he strike—but the weight of dark memories and lost opportunities are hanging in the cold air of the Master’s too-empty mansion, and Jack can’t help but swallow a breath of uncertainty. 

Hans is purposefully ignorant to the dark undertones that have swept through the room. Jack briefly flicks his eyes to the far wall, where Aster stands tall and stiff, hands clenched tightly over his front. 

No one looks at the portrait, concealed and hanging directly above him.

“Indeed,” Hans murmurs, eyes gleaming with delight. “Her royal highness has come of age at last?”

Jack thinks of what he knows of Princess Anna, of the stories he’s heard of her graciousness and innocence. Thinks of her many freckles, visible even from the sidelines of the parades, bright red hair shining in the sunlight. To think that _he_ —that someone like _Hans_ —

“She has,” responds Master Black, as though this is of no great importance. Jack’s eyes burn with the urge to look up at the hanging portrait at the end of the room— _the one covered with a thick veil of black silk, thick as fog_ —but he grits his teeth, and resists. “The celebration is not in her honor, however.” The Master tilts his head to the side, unnaturally slow, and smirks.

“Hm,” Hans raises and lowers his brows, unimpressed. “A betrothal, then?” he assumes, disdainfully swirling the wine in his glass with an exaggerated air. He takes a measured sip, long and languorous, taking his time, the way the Master sometimes does; the longer the staff must stand in silence, the better. 

The resulting curl to the Master’s smile sends chills down Jack’s spine. 

“That is the _hope_ ,” he drawls. 

Jack impulsively risks a glance up at Aster, only just in time to catch sight of perplexed annoyance slip into Hans’ perfectly-controlled features instead. Such a pleasant sight might have been worth it, had Jack not also been witness to the slippery spark of ambition that appeared in Hans’ sharp grin but a moment later.

“The royal family hopes to find a suitable son-in-law?” Hans presumes, taking a far more luxurious sip of his wine. His voice grows smoother, even sweeter, when he says,  “I daresay I hope her royal highness Anna will marry at least half as well as Rapunzel.”

A sharp bark of the Master’s laughter shocks the room into stiffness, and Jack’s eyes drop back to the floor. Such unfathomable rudeness, Jack can’t help but think, reeling at the insult on Princess Rapunzel’s behalf. Such duplicity. 

_Such bullshit._

“Oh no,” laughs Master Black, with black eyes like fire, and a grin, dagger-sharp with bitterness. “Not Princess Anna.”

The second case of bad news follows shortly thereafter.

  
//

  
The rumors are many, and Jack still refuses to believe any story that has not come directly from the mouth of Thiana.

Thiana, who hears everything, and knows much, and forgets nothing. 

They say the reason that the King and Queen have kept Princess Elsa of Arendelle so clearly out of the public eye is because she fell deathly ill at birth, and underwent a sickness so great that she was left an invalid—weak and delicate and frail. Others say that the King and Queen saw what happened to the kingdom of Corona—saw the heir to the throne and their beloved daughter kidnapped from inside their very castle walls--and at once set about ensuring that their precious daughter would never set foot from their sight, and thereby to be trapped within the protective walls of the castle until she came of age. But that time had since two years passed, and her royal highness Elsa was not to be seen.

They used to say that the King’s elder daughter was actually a sorceress in disguise, or cursed at birth with magic made of ice, but Thiana laughs at those whispering storytellers with her brightly-bared teeth, snaps that she’ll have them reported for treason. _It’s nonsense_ , Thiana would bark, _What they say about magic. But the Princess Elsa is cursed, and she_ is _trapped, wouldn’t you say?_

 _Like us_ , whispers the voice inside his head, but Jack cannot fool himself.

  
//  
  


A third piece of bad news comes not much longer after that, when Jack has been summoned to the Master’s private study long after nightfall, when the rest of the world has retired for bed. It comes when Jack is the most unsuspecting, and in so strange a way that not even Jack had ever dared imagine.

( _The Master enjoys watching them struggle, and watching them drown in unpleasant surprises, in new twists. Likes to watch them pick themselves back up time and time again, all the while wondering when next they will fall—_

 _—and how far_.)

The Master does not often smile.

“My dear, Jack,” he says softly, with teeth like fangs. “I’m afraid I have a rather unusual request.”

  
//

 

“ _You?“_ cries Thiana, who has gone starkly pale.

 _Indeed_ , thinks Jack, strangely calm. _Me_.

Jack, with dirt on his pale face, who sleeps on the cold stone floor. Who is too skinny, who does not often see the sun. Who used to climb trees, and run to the river, and roll in the grass, who now only sees shadows and mortar, the dark cellars of the Master’s house. Who cuts his own silver-blond hair.

Pretend to be the Master’s nephew, and go to the King’s ball.

“You look nothing alike,” Aster protests, aghast, at the same moment that Thiana rages, “He cannot force you to do this!”

Nicholas looks down at Jack with a serious brow, with his big, hulking arms crossed over his chest. He’s looking Jack over with obvious consideration, and Thiana keeps looking between the two of them with a growing sense of panic.

“Nicholas,” she pleads, grasping onto his wrist. Her hand looks so small against his. They aren’t very soft—not anymore, not after so many years of labor—but they look softer next to the scars and inked markings over Nicholas’ knuckles, against the thick layer of hair covering his exposed arms. “He _cannot_ be allowed to do this!”

Anderson hovers anxiously beside Aster, worrying the edge of his tunic. Aster is furious, and worried, but he’s only ever been good at showing the first.

“It’s not like the boy’s got much of a choice,” Aster declares, scowling deeply. “I bet the bastard even asked for your acceptance, didn’t he?” he jerks his head to Jack. “What a fucking farce. No one would believe such an act,” Aster snarls with a scoff. He, too, crosses his arms. Low and brittle, he sneers, “Not even those court-idiots, who can’t see past their own noses. The royal guard would have him captured within ten feet of the door, and then where would you be?”

It takes Jack a moment to realize that he’s expecting an answer. 

“Dead,” he replies honestly, and Thiana loses it.

“This is a _trap_!” she hisses impatiently, almost devastatingly quiet in her panic, as Aster scathingly remarks, “Yeah, and then the Master loses a slave.”

Jack nearly winces, because _indentured_ has always sounds a little better on parchment, sounds better to his mother and his sister so far away, even if it does not sound very good at all, _even though it’s exactly what he is_ , but Thiana’s eyes are wide and frantic, and Jack’s head lifts to watch her glance sporadically about the walls and floor. Her grip on Nicholas’ arm tightens, doubles.

“What could he mean by this?” she demands, and in this light her teeth look especially dull. “He has always resented Jack more strongly than any of us, Nicholas—possibly even more than you! You _cannot_ let him do this!” Then, eyes burning, “If you will not find a way to help him escape, then _I_ will!”

“I’m not leaving.”

Four pairs of eyes latch fiercely onto his. Jack feels both very small and very large in this tiny patch of the cellar, in the light of the fire where they won’t be heard.

“Oh, Jack,” Thiana sighs, and the force of her unhappiness swells in his chest, forces his ribs apart. “Jack, you may _have_ to,” Thiana insists, and her eyes shine with tears. “Think of the repercussions—what if you were to actually attempt to _pose_ as one of them? Where would you start? How would you even know where to begin? What has he bargained with?” Her eyes flash, suddenly. “It’s Emily.”

Jack finds that the words are positively stuck in his throat, as if he were choking on them, and Aster bursts in, hard and unyielding, “What does he want?”

He sighs, hard and heavy, and looks up to the splinters in the ceiling. Gnaws on the soft flesh of his cheek.

“He hasn’t… said,” Jack admits, quiet and careful. He won’t admit to them his own fear—not now, perhaps not ever—not when theirs is so raw. Not the conversation in the stables with Hans, and Jack's unyielding certainty that it's a trap. He's not been this certain in a long time. “But from what I can guess, it sounds like Hans won’t be able to do his usual… transactions, since he will be busy with… other matters.” Jack sets his jaw. “So the Master is having me go in his stead.”

It takes them a moment to absorb this. “Such a _rat_ ,” Thiana eventually hisses beneath her breath, and Jack involuntarily looks about the room, scanning the shadows as if their Master may be hidden among them, _listening_. “A pair of snakes, the two of them, sending their field mice to do their bidding.”

“Dirty work,” Aster concludes, with disgust.

“On whom are you supposed to spy?” Thiana demands, while Nicholas still stands, looming and assessing. Jack can hear her throat closing, can hear it welling with tears. He sighs heavily, hit by a fresh wave of exhaustion, and worry, and guilt. 

“I… I’m not sure,” and isn’t entirely sure if that’s true. The Master hasn’t said, specifically, but…

Jack has an idea.

This news has finally become too great for Thiana— _Thiana_ , who has already loved and lost so much—and she turns away sharply with a huff, facing the fire. Nicholas’ stare is still unnerving, devoid of warmth or wonder, his cold blue eyes calculating.

“You are not in position to make negotiation,” he says, finally, staring hard, and Jack’s straightens to attention. Thiana is whole-heartedly ignoring them. When Jack shakes his head, stiff and formal, Nicholas says, “You do not want this.”

Jack tries not to hesitate, but he does. He shakes his head, slowly, and is glad that Thiana isn’t looking. Aster releases a defeated sigh.

Nicholas is calm, steady, but his eyes are keen. And old.

So very, very old.

“Yet there is no choice,” Nicholas says simply, ever the pragmatist. “And so that is what we will do.”

Thiana is still turned away, and Jack does not blame her.

It makes all the difference, Jack thinks, that for Nicholas it is always a matter of _we_.

 

//  
  


“Well,” Aster says awkwardly, in the resulting silence. “You’re pale and scrawny enough to be some sheltered, worthless noble, I guess.”

“ _Aster!_ ” Thiana turns back and hisses, and—whether it’s nerves, or actually funny, or the looming realization that, very soon, he could very well _die_ —Jack can’t help it.

He laughs, if only to keep from crying.

 

//


	3. the guest room -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new guest arrives. (Or... two.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _12/20/15_. Welp. I have officially done it--I have finally completed my graduate school program. Now all that's left to do is to wait for my grades to come back, and see the final QPA. :) Here is another chapter to get me warmed up! I've spent the last month writing a 50+ page Master's thesis in APA format, so this felt a little strange. Let me know if my writing style has changed any, lol.
> 
> Unbeta'd, for now. 
> 
> (I'm still super excited about this story, btw.)

* * *

  _the guest room -_

* * *

 

“You have so many dresses!”

Elsa glances up from the crystal box between her hands, eyeing Anna’s exuberance with a cautious gleam. Anna’s happiness seems to be overflowing at every moment, and Elsa keeps find herself waiting for the moment that it will inevitably run out. 

“I have only ever worn a fraction of them,” she admits, then fears that it was the wrong thing to say. Would Anna find her actions wasteful? Unappreciative? Boastful?

“They’re wonderful! There hasto be a _thousand_ colors!” Anna gushes, twirling so forcefully in her haste to admire them all that she nearly stumbles. When Anna’s gaze falls back upon her sister’s, Elsa is alarmed to have been caught smiling so openly. Anna does not notice, or simply does not understand the distress in Elsa’s frame, and rushes forward to clasp Elsa’s hands in her delicate, freckled ones. Elsa had always imagined Anna to have a delicate pair of artist’s hands. Hers, on the other hand…

“Will you try them on for me?” Anna begs. “I want to see what you look like in green!”

She looks like a commoner, with deep pine broadclothdraped plainly over her figure and a dark wool cloak to cover the rest from the crowds at the market, with practical leather slippers she’d borrowed from the royal shoemakers’ stocks, her sleeves without embellishments or fine jewels or crystals sparkling in the sun.

Elsa laughs, bright and tinkling, and gently leads her sister towards the wardrobe, marveling at the flush of amazement that never seems to leave the color in Anna’s cheeks. If Elsa is worried that this new dream of a life will soon end, then Anna, perhaps, is terrified.

“I think green would favor you much more,” Elsa gently compliments, because this friendship is still new and fragile and so desperately wanted. She still cannot believe how quickly her life has changed, how real her chances seem now for some kind of happiness. “Would you like to see for yourself?”

“Oh— _no_ , I couldn’t—”

“I insist,” Elsa smiles, firm but soft, and watches as Anna’s resolve gently folds. It scares Elsa a little, how easily Anna gives into Elsa’s requests, so she does not make them often.

“It’s… _beautiful_ ,” Anna gasps, once the dress is on. It has been almost a year since Elsa’s life had changed for the better—since her curse had been buried, hidden, _contained_ —and almost as long since the first time Elsa was allowed in her sister’s curious presence, but it is still a rare treat for the two of them to share this time together, without attendants or handmaidens or even their mother and father. It’s easy to pretend that it has always bent his way.

“Where is this one from?” Anna asks, still marveling at the careful embroidery of flowers at the hem. Elsa forces a smile.

“My sixteenth birthday,” she answers, and lets the knowledge settle into Anna’s bones.

Her smile has softened, and her enthusiasm has tempered, but the outpouring of love remains. “I wish I could have been there,” she replies, and Elsa believes her. 

Elsa’s fingers, once so dangerous, gracefully reach up to fix the fastenings of the borrowed dress. 

“Me too,” she answers.

 

//

 

For Jack, the changes take place at dawn.

Which is, incidentally, just after he has fallen asleep. He looks groggily to where Anderson is gripping his shoulder, to the look of concern in his gentle eyes, and tries to push himself up from the cold floor. He’s being awoken much earlier than the start of his usual routine, but he doesn’t immediately suspect a difference. The reason could be as mundane and horrible as any other: perhaps Master Black would like his breakfast grains foraged _fresh_ today, or is looking for impeccably spotless floors. It would not be the first time Jack has been _requested_ to clean the floors without sunlight. Or soap. 

He does not expect to be led to a dark room with a cold bath.

Jack blinks down at the wash basin, then back at Anderson. He is considerably more awake. 

So he waits for Anderson to gesture and explain what it is that he’s supposed to do, and stares blankly when he does not. “Is it too cold?” Jack asks finally, because he isn’t thinking. Then he remembers that this tiny bucket of a basin is as far from the Master’s grand bath as a muddy puddle is from one of the royal garden’s ponds.

Anderson nods insistently to the basin, and then to the brush and the small cloth that has been set upon a stool just off to the side. Jack regards it all with confusion, and then his eyes fall to the set of clothes laid out on a shelf behind them.

“What?” Jack turns to Anderson, head whipping quickly, because he _must_ have misunderstood. 

Anderson gives him a gentle push, and a wary smile, and then slips out of the room to give Jack a rare show of privacy.

For a moment, Jack only stands there, alone in the silence of the early morning. He’s by himself in a dark room, staring at a basin of washing water that is at least ten times as many as he’s allowed in only a matter of days, and, well. There’s the clothes.

Shoes, even.

When the blue of the sky begins to show tell-tale signs of the coming day—and Jack has gone through it all so many times in his head as to be _reasonably_ certain that if it is _indeed_ a trap, or a trick, then it’s at least one that the Master has _ordered_ him to follow through—he finally moves. 

His steps sound too loud after so much silence, and his shuffling is unusually clumsy in this unfrequented space of the house. It’s on the side of the property that is closest to the woods, and the large, looming windows let in a fair amount of deep blue morning light. There’s a rickety door that leads directly outside to the gardener’s path, which Aster hardly ever uses either. Jack’s eyes have grown used to the house’s darkness, and the faintest hint of dawn, but his fingers still fumble with the brush that he lifts for closer inspection. 

“On with it,” he tries to mutter, but it’s too soft, too delicate, and it sounds uncomfortably unsure. In something akin to retaliation, Jack purposefully yanks his shirt up and rips it clear over his head, ignoring when it catches uncomfortably over his chin. 

He makes a point of trying to fold it, though he doesn’t know if there’s a point with all of its wrinkles and dust-stains, and feels a little ridiculous at how uneasy he is, at how nervous he seems to be over taking a bath.

 _It’s not just a bath_ , Jack notes with a frown, fluffing the shirt into submission. _It’s what will come after_.

But thoughts like those aren’t helpful, because the very last thing Jack needs is to get himself riled up with anxiety. Who knows what this is all about? Perhaps the Master just got tired of his stable-stench. Perhaps he got tired of staring at the dirt on his face. _Perhaps he means to punish you for it, afterwards._

“Bollocks,” Jack hisses through his teeth, struggling to remove a boot. He has no socks at this time of year, which he doesn’t mind, though Thiana would gladly darn him some if there were any wool to spare. The cold floor is a refreshing shock to his bare feet, but Jack looks to the water with suspicion. He’d bet his left ass-cheek that it came straight from the river.

 _Stop complaining_ , he scolds, reaching for the ties of his pants. The waist loosens as Jack’s eyes stare distantly at some speck of dirt or pebble on the floor, as he thinks, _You don’t know when you’re going to see this much water again._

So, then, feeling considerably better about the whole thing—even if it is a bloody trap—he drops his breeches to the floor and steps forward, stark-naked. 

Jack lowers a hand into the basin, and hisses sharply at its temperature, then yanks his fingers back toward his chest. As he rubs the pads of his thumb and fingers together, frowning at their numbness, he glares at the water. It’s practically ice.

In fact, it’s probably _too_ cold for body to handle… but it’s also been two years since he’s had the luxury of using this much water all at once. He’s also still completely naked and not actually doing a whole lot about it; he’s used to feeling exposed, but not like _this_ , and even if he’s alone in the dark, Jack doesn’t like it.

“Fuck it,” he swears, and makes a decision.

He lowers himself down on shaky arms and legs, and actually gasps aloud—curses some more, for good measure—when the icy water slips over his ass, his back, the tops of his thighs. His cock practically shrivels inward. 

He manages to keep his legs and feet out of the water, and his hands and shoulders mostly so, and after a mere few minutes, the rest of his is pretty numb to pretty much everything. It’s been almost two years since a proper bath, and this feels important.

(It’s also been a fair bit longer since Jack has had the opportunity—or the courage—to properly indulge in… _other_ luxuries, too.

But. If Jack had even _briefly_ entertained the idea of risking a quick wank before he tried touching the water, then it’s surely gone now. He wonders if he even has any balls left to speak of.) 

So Jack focuses on the task at hand. The brush’s bristles are too harsh over his skin, leaving angry red marks in its wake, but Jack grins and bears it, even checks his feet and fingernails more than twice. It’s as he’s placing the brush upon the nearby stool for a moment that he sees the note he neglected to see before. It’s a small piece of paper, with a very short message written in a long sloping hand, with ink as fine and as black as gold could buy.

 _Enjoy this rare opportunity,_ it reads, and Jack frowns deeply from where he sits in the freezing tub. Water is dripping from it’s splashed onto his nose and his hair, and his chest is tight from the cold, and Jack is beginning not to feel anything below his waist. _As per our agreement, I expect you to take full advantage of it._

Jack’s frown deepens, because he reads between the lines. 

“I don’t doubt it,” he whispers, brow knitting tightly, and finishes reading with a scowl. _Do take care of your mess, and DO keep your provisions clean._ Jack glances to the arrangement of fine clothes on the shelf behind him, the shoes. _They are not to be taken for granted. I should not see so much as a single speck of dirt upon them._

Jack scoffs. He’s about to mutter something else beneath his breath, about to rise from the tub and get started on this mad parade, when he flips the note over, and sees the back.

_If any dirt remains, I am not opposed to burning it off._

 

//

 

Jack arrives to the kitchens not more than a half hour later, because he assumes that’s where he’s supposed to go.

It’d been freezing, trying to dry off with that wisp of a cloth, and after reading that concluding line a few more times, Jack decided it wasn’t worth trying to take care of the mess in a new set of clothes. Fancy ones, at that. Unwilling to put his old rags back on, he’d discovered a few linens on another shelf, found one of a decent size, and had wrapped it around himself as best he could. Fairly confident that no one else was yet awake, he’d dragged the basin out through the rickety door, wrapped only in a threadbare bed linen, and dumped the water two feet from the entrance, right onto Aster’s flowers. Oops. 

Once he was back inside, his hair was still dripping all over, that’s when the shivering _really_ started. He couldn’t feel his fingers when he picked up the first article of clothing he grabbed, but the softness of the fabric was astounding. Jack eyed the brass buttons with confusion, and maybe a little wonder, and then shivers wracked his body once more, and Jack decided that enough admiration was enough.

And so now he’s here, fidgeting and uncomfortable in a corner of the empty kitchen, trying not to pull too much on the sleeves that are just a tad too long for him. There are even clothes _under_ his clothes, and the fashions have long since changed since he’d last been provided any, not that he was ever concerned with _fashion_ , to say—but the point is, Jack is uncomfortable, and silent, and when he imagines leaving a trail of dirty fingerprints over the hem of his shirt, he winces.

Because he doesn’t know what else to do, and because it’s what he always does, Jack sets about preparing the Master’s morning tray. There’s tea, with milk and sugar—even though he never drinks it any way but black—and his usual assortment of biscuits, and it’s as Jack is wondering just how early it is and when Nicholas will arrive to prepare the morning meat that Anderson arrives and hurriedly ushers him away from the tray.

“What?” Jack asks, as Anderson gently nudges him toward the stairs. “What am I supposed to do?”

Later, he’s sorry he asked.

 

//

 

Jack stares down at the glorious plate before him with absolutely no appetite at all.

It doesn’t help that Aster is the one who’d placed it there.

Jack can feel Master Black’s eyes on him throughout the whole of the meal, the same way he’s felt his unnerving stare all morning through his _lessons_. Propriety. Etiquette. How to stand, how to walk, how to _look_. But not speak.

 _Not yet_ , the Master had said, teeth gleaming.

And so here Jack sits, in a place of honor at the table in the Master’s breakfast nook, hardly able to breathe for the tightness in his lungs, for the stuffiness in his waistcoat, for the silence of his friends. His head is spinning, and his mouth is dry, and in some ways he still feels that he is frozen, that maybe he would have been better off somehow drowning himself in the tub.

“The ball is to last for _three_ full days, and there is only a month to prepare. Henceforth, within every moment of every hour until the conclusion of the King’s inexorable celebration, you are now to be treated and deferred to as a member of the Black circle,” says the Master, who examines the shine of a spoon as if it were a diamond. Jack tries not to swallow as the Master turns his eyes on him, smirking serenely, “And you shall act and speak accordingly with all of the privileges and _responsibilities_ therein.”

Jack doesn’t dare look at Thiana, or Anderson, or even Aster—even though the man has already fed him two courses—and nods. “Yes, Master Black,” he manages.

The Master pauses, though Jack’s not quite sure why. He dismisses the thought, whatever it is, and with a gesture he hails Thiana from the other side of the room, silently summoning her for another cup of tea to be poured. Jack’s eyes drop to the threading of the table cloth as Thiana graciously pours the Master another cup, afraid of what he’ll find. But then he hears the sharp, deep warning, “Gaze _up_ ,” and finds the Master watching him with keen interest.

The Master smiles at him, and Jack’s stomach knots, and then the Master says, “Thiana, my dear,” in the way Jack _hates_ , hates more than anything. “Our guest’s cup is running dangerously _low._ ”

Jack resists the urge to swallow, or to grit his teeth, or stab his Master in the face with his breakfast fork, and feels the Master’s searing gaze upon the side of his face all the while. Jack is staring at some indiscernible speck on the wall across from him—gaze _up_ —but he can see Thiana from the corner of his eye, can feel the shake in her voice when she says, “Yes, sire,” and hurries to replenish Jack’s tea.

It’s awful.

Jack wonders if this was part of the plan. If the Master had intended this—some new sick form of entertainment he’s always wanted to try—or if it is merely a pleasant advantage to an already dastardly plan. Risk the life of a servant for ambition and power, and mortify them all in the process? Alienate him from his friends, his support, and criticize his every flaw, his every move, his every breath until it supposedly reaches unattainable perfection, until the pressure of this _agreement_ sends him over the edge? Until he snaps? Or he’s captured and executed for trying?

The Master looks far too pleased with himself when Jack obligingly lifts his shaking fingers to sip at his tea.

 

//  


From there, Jack’s provisions improve; his situation does not.

“I don’t understand,” he says, staring at the four-post bed to which he’s been led. 

Anderson says nothing. It hurts Jack to look at the concern on his face, so he stops looking at Anderson, and starts wandering around the room. It’s not nearly as large as some of the others in the mansion, but unlike the cellar it is warm and dry and there is twilight flickering through two modest windows. There is the bed, with freshly-changed sheets and a collection of many fluffed pillows—more than anyone could ever need for their head, and Jack wonders what the others are for—and there are dressers and bureaus and small tables and nightstands of darkly-stained wood. There is a desk, which makes Jack frown. It is a known fact amongst the mansion that he cannot read very well and can only write simple sentences, so the desk seems strange; as wanders and explores, he wonders if that is a part of the punishment, too. 

There is a mirror. 

Jack falters. He does not recognize this too-skinny creature in too-large clothing, with brass buttons and shined shoes and a finely-threaded jacket. The face is familiar— _sharp chin and hollowed cheeks, pale and thin with blue-trickling veins—and the hair, always, a shock of light in so many shadows_ —but the rest of him is new in many ways he cannot name. 

There are windows and ponds and basins of water, and a reflection of one’s face isn’t so hard to find, but a full-length _mirror_ —

It is possibly the first time Jack has seen so many of his flaws so clearly, and these are only the ones that are visible. 

 

//

 

The first two nights Jack spends in his new bed, he does not sleep, and the shadows under his eyes grow darker.

He is not allowed at market the next day, or the next, or the next, and Jack can’t decide if it is a disappointment or a comfort.

“Sorry, Jack,” Aster hisses as he is passing through the guest’s study to replenish Jack’s tea, which is what has kept Jack awake through the rigorous training of teaching himself to read and understand court and legal documents that hold no interest for him. A training that is to be continued indefinitely, until he is _more fit for society_ —and less of a disgrace to the Black family name. 

“No sign of her,” Aster whispers as he leaves, ever so quietly, even though Jack has not asked. 

That night is the first night that Jack is able to fall asleep in his new bed, the one with four posts and thick, stifling blankets and a mattress that is too soft for someone who has grown used to sleeping on a cold stone floor. He drifts off to sleep, riddled with exhaustion, dreaming uselessly of fantasies that can’t come true. 

He can’t reveal to anyone who he is pretending to be, but part of him— _part of him_ —wants to see her again. Part of him _wants her to see_ —clean clothes, clean skin. That a few days’ worth of consistent meals mean there is more meat on his bones, if only barely. He would like to see her, even if his pants are too long, and his hair is too uneven, and, save for a meager laugh or two, he has nothing else to offer her. (Jack also reminds himself that he is starting to recognize the weight and feel of a respectable jacket on his shoulders; it’s a dangerous, stupid thing to call familiar.) 

But the truth is that she is probably already gone, and even if Jack is standing taller these days, it’s not without the insatiable urge to watch behind his back.

 

//

 

The Master’s fingertips press tightly together, sharp like a mountain’s unforgiving peak. Aster is waiting silently at the door, and Jack is seated upon a stiffly-cushioned armchair directly within the Master’s line of sight. The wood of the desk at which he sits is comprised of wood so dark it is nearly black, just like the thickness of dread that enters Jack’s lungs. 

“I am most impatient with your lack of… _progress_ ,” he intones, brow dipping low.

Jack tries to remember: would it be a greater impertinence to apologize or take his shame in silence?

“I will improve,” he promises, and hopes to high hell it can actually be done. For all their sakes. 

The Master considers him for a long moment, unmoving, with eyes so sharp and mean that in the twilight they look nearly golden with power. For the space of two breaths, Jack is convinced that he has already failed, and that all of this charade—the clothes, the food, the awful suspenseful lonely torment—is all about to end, three weeks too soon. He can’t tell if the tension lining his body is relief, or disappointment. 

“Yes,” the Master answers quietly, with certainty. “You will.” 

Jack doesn’t understand the chill of foreboding that crawls up his spine. He is already doing everything that he possibly can to follow the Master’s orders—what more could he possibly do?

“Aster,” the Master drawls, too smooth for a barked command, but a command nonetheless. “Admit her.”

Jack has not properly seen Aster’s face in nearly a week, but he knows the slight twitch of Aster’s left eyebrow, and he feels it like the raising of a fist before the blow. Aster will not look at him as he steps forward and slowly opens the grand mahogany doors to the Master’s study, and Jack’s mouth runs dry. ( _It is his ailing mother, snatched from their home so that Jack could see his failures in the hollows of her cheeks; it is his sister, tricked into servitude alongside him, or worse, in a distant land, where he will never see her again—_ )

“Jack Frost,” the Master draws his attention back in, and the gleam in his eyes show the smug satisfaction over Jack’s surprise. “You _will_ change.”

In steps a short figure with a heavy footfall, clad in brown leather boots and a deep green velvet dress half-hidden by a thick, black cloak. The edges of the cloak are trimmed with intricately patterned knots that Jack has never seen before, and in the shadows of the hood, he still cannot see the woman’s face.

“Lady Merida,” announces Aster, with a grim reluctance that only Jack can hear, “Of the Scottish Highlands, at your service.”

The woman removes the cloak, and down falls an overwhelming cascade of wild, fire-red curls. Her jaw is set, and her eyes are keen, and Jack isn’t sure what to expect.

He can’t imagine why she is carrying a basket full of what appears to be fruit tarts.

 

//

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
